


These Small Revolutions

by CloudAtlas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (sort of?), A Big Green Leather Wingback Chair, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Blow Jobs, Bootlegging, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Multi, Open Relationships, POV Clint Barton, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Smut, Speakeasies, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22133209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: All his restraint, and for what? For months and months, he could have been havingthis.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 20
Kudos: 119
Collections: Holly Poly 2019





	These Small Revolutions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Huntress79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huntress79/gifts).



> Yes, hello. Apparently I'm this person now. This is what happens with you mainline voxofthevoid and AidaRonan. Sorry not sorry. So! I hope you enjoy this Huntress79! I sure enjoyed writing it. :P
> 
> **19.03.2020:** Now also with [a little snippet from James' POV over on tumblr](https://cloud--atlas.tumblr.com/post/613058797455425536/writing-meme-pov).
> 
> Thanks to **inkvoices** for beta. Thanks to **geckoholic** for inadvertently putting this idea in my head. Title and quote from Christopher Hitchins, speaking in 2010 of Iranians defying the state-wide clerical ban on alcohol.
> 
> _These small revolutions affirm the human._  
> 

Clint bangs on the door.

“Got your fresh linen here, buddy,” he says to the eye that appears in the peephole, tipping his hat back so his face can be seen. “For Barnes.”

The eye blinks and disappears, and Clint hears the grinding of the deadbolts before the door swings open.

“Usual place, yeah?” he asks as he hauls his trolley of linens through the door, though it’s more for something to say than any real need for a reply. It’s always the usual place; down the hallway, into the industrial dumbwaiter, and then on to the cellar where the linens are kept. Because regardless of what else he may do for the Red Room, Clint does actually bring the clean linens.

He takes the newly starched linens off the trolley, putting them away into the drawers and on the shelves beside the cabinets of glassware and stacks of extra chairs, carefully extracting bottle after bottle from their folds. Then comes the barrel, eased out from where it’s been carefully packed into place with some large tablecloths that have never once seen an actual table.

“What have you got for me this time, Barton?”

The voice makes Clint jump, and he can feel a dull flush creeping up his neck despite his fervent wish for otherwise. But then, James Barnes always has this effect on him. He should be used to it by now.

“Usual beer,” Clint says gruffly, gesturing at the barrel. “An Old Taylor’s whisky, some French red wine, some rum ‘cause Wilson was bugging me, and,” he says, uncomfortable, “champagne.”

“Yeah?” Barnes says, eyebrows raised and hands tucked in pockets.

“Genuine French.”

Barnes grins. “Fancy. The missus will be pleased.”

Clint doesn’t say anything to that, just repacks his trolley, adding this week’s dirty linen as he goes.

“Twenty-five dollars?” Barnes asks eventually.

Clint looks up again – a mistake, because now Barnes is smiling at him and… God, James Barnes should be in Hollywood. Not here, on the edge of Harlem, in this cellar, with Clint.

“Yeah,” Clint manages. “Yeah, twenty-five.”

A rip-off, even by bootlegger standards. But if Clint wants to keep delivering here, then this is how much it costs, because Barney would much rather Clint didn’t deliver to the Red Room at all, and he’s not shy about saying so. Clint’s jumped through higher hoops. Not many, but they’ve existed.

He also knows why Barnes keeps paying regardless. He just… doesn’t think too hard about that.

There’s another long silence where Clint puts away the bottles with exaggerated care, drawing the task out unnecessarily, all too aware of Barnes eye’s on him.

“You coming tonight?” It’s Barnes who eventually breaks the silence, like it always is. “Talia will be pleased to see you.”

She’s always ‘Talia’ when Barnes wants something. Like she’s an offering, held out to Clint in lieu of something else. Natalia is no-one’s consolation prize, Clint’s least of all, but it doesn’t stop Barnes doing it.

Barnes knows it works, is why; touching by proxy, or something. Which would make Clint the worst kind of person, apart from Natalia encourages it with sultry smiles and soft touches and lips brushing ears and cheeks. A relentless tease. It drives Clint insane, but then everything about the Red Room does. Everything he wants close enough to touch and him not brave enough to reach out.

So instead there’s Natalia, and Barnes’ hot eyes.

Clint doesn’t answer. Instead he turns the newly-filled trolley back towards the dumbwaiter and leaves, Barnes’ gaze heavy between his shoulder blades.

Champagne usually means Clint’s not returning to the Red Room that night, but when he gets back to Hell’s Kitchen, the look Barney sends him makes his cheeks burn.

Barney knows, is the thing. Or at least, he knows enough. And while he doesn’t understand and is _barely_ accepting, he’s Clint’s brother, and filial affection just about stretches to turning a blind eye. Or, sometimes, a gruff mantra of _if you’re going to do illegal shit at least do it well enough to be worth the arrest,_ which is also how they got into bootlegging in the first place.

“Ain’t no more deliveries tonight,” Barney says gruffly, once all the dirty linen has been passed on to the one legal part of their enterprise. “O’Malley’s down at the Docks. You coming?”

He’s daring Clint to say yes. They’re brothers, but they’re not really friends. They don’t run in the same circles and they don’t really care for the same things. But they look out for each other, as much as they’re able, emotionally stunted as they are.

Barney doesn’t want him there, Clint knows. Mainly because he doesn’t want his sad sack younger brother tagging along, doesn’t want Clint’s disapproving looks when he hassles women and gambles his money away. But also because he knows there’s somewhere else Clint would rather be, somewhere that would make him happier than hanging around with O’Malley. Barney cares, in his own way. It makes it better and worse at the same time.

“Maybe,” Clint replies.

Barney raises an eyebrow, scepticism painted large on his face. But all he says is, “All right.”

Clint is always surprised how different the Red Room looks when he’s there as a customer rather than a deliveryman. Which is absurd, because of course it would look different; as a deliveryman he sees the cellar, the workers’ entrance, all those dirty and messy parts kept out of the view of patrons. There’s no leather couches, no red velvet curtains, no band. He _fits_ there, in his old wool trousers and crumpled cotton shirt.

He doesn’t fit here.

He’d walked back to Harlem from Hell’s Kitchen, taking his time, skirting Central Park. He’d just needed to clear his head – though it hadn’t worked, not really, and he almost loses his nerve when he reaches the street the Red Room is on. But the light is still on in the solicitors above the club, and the Italian restaurant next to it is bustling, and the woman stood at the door smiles at him when he approaches, and he finds himself giving the password without any input from his brain at all.

So here he is, in his smartest suit and hat, feeling as though he’s under a spotlight because his smartest suit and hat are still well below the average for the Red Room.

Barnes is a tailor, after all.

The band is out, Wilson playing his trumpet like he’ll best Louis Armstrong, and Clint scans the room while trying to ignore everything he wishes he could stare at, his heart beating double time. It doesn’t matter though, his eyes catch regardless. On Steve and his wife Peggy and their… Angie, a waitress from the Italian restaurant upstairs, which provides much of the Red Room’s wine, though none of it half the quality of what Clint can find. On Carol in her pinstripe suit, dancing with Black Maria. On White Maria in her vest and suspenders, looking more man than any man in the room. On Frank with his endless cigarettes and bloodied knuckles. On the young Parker kid, too pretty for his own good and dolled up to the nines. And – something lurches in Clint’s stomach – on the solicitors, Nelson and Murdoch, pressing kisses into each other’s mouths, not a care for who sees.

Clint _aches_.

“Thought you weren’t coming tonight.”

There’s a thunk of a bottle hitting his table, and he turns to find Natalia with the champagne he’d brought earlier today, the glass gleaming dully in the low light. He looks away; doesn’t reply.

“James will be pleased,” she continues. “He was disappointed when I told him what the champagne meant.”

He’s not seen Barnes yet. It shouldn’t feel like a disappointment but Clint feels as though his guts are threatening to coil right up and strangle his heart regardless.

“Here.” Natalia thrusts a flute of champagne into his lax hand, but he shakes his head, one quick jerk.

“It’s for you,” he manages to get out, his voice hoarse.

“But why do I need it now you’re here?”

Finally, finally he looks at her.

“There you are,” she says, soft and intimate. “I missed your baby blues, darling.”

She looks like heartbreak in forest green, so lovely that Clint can hardly meet her gaze. He always feels wildly out of his depth when he’s around her; uncultured, stupid, poor.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Natalia’s fingertips graze his cheek, feather light, and Clint abruptly feels like crying. She’s someone else’s wife – she’s _Barnes’_ wife – and he wants… There’s too much inside him; too much emotion, too much shame, too much want. He’s built walls around them, these feelings, walls with doors and locks and barricades, but they all feel very flimsy when he’s here.

“Here,” Natalia says, once against pushing the champagne into his hand and refusing to back down until his hand curls around the stem of the flute. “Now scoot, let me sit.”

He scoots and, with a rustle of fabric, Natalia slides in beside him, her thigh a hot stripe against his.

“You know,” she says, linking her arm with his. “I made the Red Room for James.”

People think the Red Room is Barnes’, despite the fact that he’s apprenticing Ivan Petrovich in his tailor shop, and Barnes encourages this idea. But Clint is observant, and it took him no time at all to see that the Red Room ran to the exacting standards of Natalia Alianovna Romanova.

“He’s my husband, and I love him.” She leans against Clint’s side, and he can’t help but stiffen at her close proximity. “I wanted somewhere where he could be himself.”

Wilson starts up the Charleston and Clint watches as Carol drags Black Maria out to dance. But his eyes are drawn inexorably to Barnes, who has taken White Maria by the hand, making an elaborate bow over their joined hands and causing her to laugh.

“But not just him,” Natalia continues, her eyes now following Barnes as he swings White Maria around the room, turning the Charleston into the Lindy Hop and forcing Wilson to change the tune, which he does but not before throwing a wine cork at Barnes in laughing protest. “For people like Steve and Peggy and Angie, and White Maria and Parker. I wanted somewhere where black folks and white folks and any other type of folks can get together without worrying.” She tucks a finger under Clint’s jaw then, forcing him to look at her instead of the path Barnes is cutting through the dancefloor with White Maria. “Where people can be themselves.”

He opens his mouth for some sort of denial but once again nothing comes out, and Natalia’s face is so open and kind, like all she wants for him is happiness, pure and uncomplicated.

“It’s all right, Clint,” she says eventually, moving closer and telegraphing her intent so clearly Clint’s left with no doubt as to what she’s offering. “You’re safe here.”

Clint gives the barest hint of a nod, and Natalia kisses him, and the world falls away.

He honestly doesn’t know how he ended up here. There’s an indistinct smear of time between Natalia’s kiss and here that Clint can’t account for, like the champagne and Natalia’s lipstick got Clint drunker than any liquor he’s had before. He remembers pitching into Natalia like he was drowning. He remembers the hot press of Barnes against his back. He remembers turning to Barnes like it was inevitable. He remembers the stubble on Barnes’ jaw, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, the feeling of freefall. It wasn’t as scary as he thought it would be, though he’s not sure how or why.

And now he’s here, in the room known as Barnes’ office – which is really Natalia’s office – sitting in the most beautiful green leather wingback armchair with James Barnes kneeling eagerly at his feet.

Clint really doesn’t know how this happened. He can’t even remember how Barnes got _down_ there. Surely – surely Clint would have prevented that?

“Oh, darling.” Natalia’s voice startles him, and he turns wide eyes to watch her as she locks the door and walks towards them. “So eager, hmm?”

She has the champagne bottle in one hand and her champagne flute in the other, looking like the embodiment of every warning about the dangers of decadence and alcohol and unrestrained desire. Flanked by Natalia’s predatory saunter and Barnes kneeling at his feet, Clint feels trapped, caught between the two people he’s spent months trying not to want. But he does want and perhaps he’s done lying to himself.

There’s a thump as Natalia places the heavy champagne bottle on the floor by the chair, leaning over Clint to fist her now-free hand into Barnes’ hair, his eyes slipping shut at the action, his mouth a lush red.

Clint can feel whatever’s left of his control creak under the pressure of his mounting desire.

He feels a nudge at his elbow, Natalia requesting space to sit on the arm of the chair, and Clint has to force his hand to unclench from the leather in order to comply. He clenches down on his trousers instead, balling the wool in his fist. Natalia makes no move to let go of Barnes’ hair, so the act of her sitting changes the angle, forcing Barnes’ to kneel up, back arched, neck taut. Clint can see a sliver of his eyes now, under heavy lids, pupils huge and dark and desire-filled. Their gazes lock and, abruptly, Clint feels unworthy. Of all the men in the world, why would Barnes want _him_?

“You’re going to be gentle, aren’t you?” she says and Barnes’ nods, as much as he’s able.

“You want him to stay, don’t you?”

Barnes’ nods harder.

“Good.” Natalia lets go of Barnes’ hair so suddenly he only just catches himself before falling, his hands finding balance through Clint’s thighs.

God, Clint’s never seen a man behave like this, he’s never seen a man like it – want it, _crave_ it – and be so unashamed of that fact. It’s a revelation, and Clint had thought that his childhood with Carson’s and the Ringling Bros. had exposed him to everything. But Clint’s never met a woman who behaves like Natalia either; this is her _husband_ , on his knees at Clint’s feet and she’s watching, _encouraging_ , while still holding her champagne flute. She looks _pleased_.

She slides her hand along Clint’s jaw now – tacky with Barnes’ Pomade – and turns him to face her. “You’re going to stay, yes?”

Clint wants to laugh, a strangled, hysterical thing. Like he could say no, here where Barnes hands laying gentle on his thighs are strength enough to keep him in place. What remains of his denial is barely a whisper, drowned out by the staccato beat of his heart and a buzzy, static feeling, like a radio caught between two stations.

But she must see something in his face, because she tips forward, mouth inches from his own, and says, “Oh darling, I promise you won’t regret it,” before sliding her mouth across his, just like before, in the bar.

Most of her lipstick is gone now but the taste of it remains, faintly clinging to her lips. Clint can feel the base of the champagne flute knock against the crown of his head and it takes him a moment to realise that Natalia has curled her arm around the back of the chair to steady herself. It takes more than that to register Barnes’ hands at this waist, unbuttoning his suspenders and vest, pushing his undershirt up, until his belly is exposed to the air. In fact, Clint only really becomes aware of what Barnes is doing when he feels the rough press of his lips below Clint’s navel and the suddenly insistent press of his erection against Barnes’ throat.

The realisation of what’s about to happen slides hot and syrupy down his spine and Clint’s not proud of the noise that spills into Natalia’s mouth, but he no longer the willpower to stop it. Barnes’ hands are so sure and steady. Gentle. Clint tears away from Natalia’s mouth to look down and almost loses it at the sight of Barnes drawing him out of his briefs. His gaze is intent, as though he’s uncovering buried treasure; greed, and wonder, and reverence all mixed together in wide dark eyes.

“Oh,” Natalia says, hot and directly into Clint’s ear, “Oh, that’s nice.”

“ _Talia_ ,” Barnes manages, something like awe in his voice, and Natalia hums in agreement, the sound vibrating against Clint’s throat. Barnes gaze then slides onto him and he looks almost shy.

“Jesus, Barton,” he says, his voice thick and deep and sending a completely involuntary thrill through Clint. “Ain’t you the prettiest thing.”

It’s ridiculous, Barnes calling him ‘pretty’. Clint’s not pretty. Clint’s a product of too much violence and not enough tenderness; bruised and callused and rough around the edges. He’s about to say so too, to refute all the tenderness folded into the tone of Barnes’ voice, but he can’t. Doesn’t get a chance to, because Barnes leans forward and kisses the tip of his cock, runs his nose down the length, inhales so deep Clint feels air rushing against his skin, and Clint whines like he’s dying instead, a completely embarrassing sound that causes Natalia to smirk and nip at his ear.

“He’s good at this,” she says, “I promise.”

And then Barnes looks up at him, eyes black and lust-blown, opens his mouth, and swallows him down.

Clint’s few experiences with this – in Carson’s or in the Ringling Bros. – never felt like this. They were perfunctory, rushed, never really about Clint. He’d always been giving, and he’d never really known what he was doing. But Barnes – oh, but Barnes knows what he’s doing, taking him deep and wet and true.

Something in Clint snaps, his restraint, or perhaps his fear, dissolving completely in the heat and closeness of Barnes’ mouth. He tries not to buck up. He knows from experience what it’s like being on the receiving end of that unexpectedly. But even the aborted movement of his hips have a restrained violence about them and Barnes gags, constricting hot and tight around Clint and shit, that just makes it _better_. Just – tight and amazing and Clint’s trying so hard to be considerate he doesn’t realise that Barnes is _moaning_ around him until Natalia’s hand trails down Clint’s arm with intent, gently unclenching his fingers from his trousers and instead curling them into Barnes’ hair, already mussed irreparably by Natalia’s grip earlier.

“He likes the sting, Clint,” she says, hot in his ear. “He likes the pressure.” And then she tightens their joined hands and _pushes_ , forcing Barnes further onto Clint, and Clint almost loses his mind.

“Oh God.” Clint’s breath is coming in short pants, breaking around moans while Barnes gags and drools on his cock. “Fuck, Barnes. _Fuck_.”

Barnes just moans in return, his throat making wet _thwick thwick_ sounds as he bobs up and down, forcing himself deeper at each pass, until Clint can feel Barnes’ nose against the close hair of his lower stomach. Clint didn’t know people could do this, didn’t really think anyone would _want_ to the way Barnes clearly does. It’s maddening, overwhelming. Dirty and wrong and everything he didn’t know he wanted.

All his restraint, and for what? For months and months, he could have been having _this_.

There’s a crash somewhere behind him and a hand tightens in Clint’s hair – clearly Natalia decided there were more important things than keeping hold of her champagne flute – as Natalia turns him towards her mouth. He sinks into her, letting her tongue swallow his moans. He feels her hand untangle from his and suddenly there are nails scoring lines up his abdomen, rucking his undershirt up his chest until she catches on a nipple, and Clint doesn’t even have time to warn Barnes before orgasm washes over him, leaving him warm and boneless and dishevelled, spread-eagled in the chair.

Clint comes back to himself in waves, first becoming aware of Natalia’s nails scoring gentle lines through his hair before he registers Barnes, pressing adoring kisses along his shaft, which is completely free of his own come because _Barnes swallowed it all_. Clint makes a sound like he’s been punched and, halfway through Barnes’ awed, “Jesus, Barton, you make the prettiest noises,” he fists his hand in Barnes’ hair and _pulls_ , dragging Barnes into his lap and almost smashing their lips together.

Distantly, Clint notes Natalia’s delighted burst of laughter.

Barnes tastes a little salty and a little like whiskey and Clint didn’t think the taste of himself in another man’s mouth would do it for him, but apparently he’s learning a lot about himself tonight because he’s immediately hooked.

All Clint’s inhibitions have fled the building and while he’s sure all that shame and guilt will find him again sometime in the near future they’re not here now. Now there’s only the hot stripe of Natalia against his side and the weight of Barnes across his lap. Clint can feel Barnes cock hot through his smart wool trousers and he _wants_ in a way he’s never allowed himself to want before, hot and bright and all-encompassing. He wants to do something about it, but he also can’t quite bring himself to give up running his hands up and down Barnes’ back, clutching at his backside, his neck, the curve of his ribs. Acres of space he’d never let himself think about, let alone touch.

Natalia presses herself against them both, alternating between sucking bruises high under Barnes’ jaw and trailing biting kisses down Clint’s neck. Then he feels her free hand slide into the few spare inches between them, making short work of the zip on Barnes’ trousers, drawing his cock out and apparently gripping _tight_ because Barnes makes a punched-out groan, shocky with want, directly into Clint’s mouth.

“You going to be good for Clint?” Natalia says, drawing Barnes’ attention away from Clint’s mouth, though barely.

“Clint,” Barnes repeats, hardly seeming to pay attention, but the shape of his name in Barnes’ mouth sets Clint’s stomach cartwheeling.

“You going to show him how he made you feel?”

Barnes whines, and Clint never thought a grown man could make a sound like that. _God_.

“’Cause he made you feel so good, didn’t he?”

This time she doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead, Natalia twists her hand, more vicious than Clint would ever dare, and Barnes spills over her fist, over himself, over Clint’s still-bared stomach, garbled profanities spilling into Clint’s mouth to meet Clint’s heartfelt expletives half way.

Barnes slumps sideways, tucking himself against Clint’s left side, his head resting on Clint’s shoulder and his face all but pressed up against Clint’s neck. It’s absurdly intimate – somehow more so than anything they’ve done up to this point – and Clint gets the sudden urge to turn his face into Barnes’ hair, press his nose against his temple and breathe in the smell of Pomade and sweat and skin that clings to Barnes now, that probably clings to them all now. But that idea is entirely derailed by Natalia lazily running her fingers through the mess on his stomach and then, with a little _why-not?_ shrug, sucking her fingers into her mouth, mess and all. It’s so filthy, Barnes’ come and Natalia’s red lacquered nails disappearing between her kiss-bitten lips, that Clint lets out a stuttered groan.

“Jesus Christ, Natalia.”

Natalia grins at him. “Want to taste?”

And Clint wants to say no, is _intending_ to say no, but Natalia is too quick for him, pulling him in for a filthy kiss inches from her husband’s face. Her husband, who – _fuck_ – Clint can now _taste._

“How’d I taste?” Barnes mumbles sleepily into Clint’s neck. He slips a hand around Clint’s waist and Clint feels almost dizzy with his touch. They’ve not even tucked themselves back into their trousers, _God_.

“Not as good as the champagne,” Natalia replies with a grin.

“Not as good as Barton, you mean,” and Clint can feel the blush creep up his neck.

“I wouldn’t know,” Natalia says primly. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

Clint’s cheeks _burn_.

“Kiss me and find out,” Barnes counters, sitting up just enough for easy access.

For some reason, Clint honestly thinks she’s not going to do it. For some godforsaken reason, it’s the fact that she _does_ that is the most surprising thing about this entire evening.

They’re _so close_.

Clint’s seen them kiss before – of course he has, the Red Room is _exactly_ that kind of club – but not like this, not two inches from his face. He can see the thick fan of Barnes’ eyelashes, hear the slick slide of their tongues. It’s unspeakably erotic, and that’s without knowing _why_ they’re kissing; namely, so Natalia can taste whatever is left of Clint on Barnes’ tongue.

Natalia hums as they part. “Maybe you’re right, darling.” She licks her lips. “I think I’d like to experience it first-hand though.”

She turns to Clint then, just as the full implication of what she means makes its way through his sluggish brain. Natalia, on her knees. Natalia, lips spread wide.

Oh god, what has he got himself into?

“What do you say to that?”

He knows what he _should_ say. What he should say is no. What he should say is never again. He should stop coming, stop delivering here, finally give into Barney and focus on business elsewhere. That’s what he _should_ do.

It’s not what he wants though.

“I should – ” he starts, unsure of where he’s going with that sentence. Not that it matters, because Barnes says, “ _Clint_ ,” like that alone will change his mind (it could) and Clint has to cut himself off or risk all the rising emotion in his chest spilling out through his mouth in a torrent.

They stare at each other for a moment. Barnes’ eyes are a pale blue, like winter skies. They feel safe, somehow.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Natalia says into the silence, and he and Barnes break off their staring match to look at her, “you can’t go yet. I’ve not yet got mine.”

Barnes’ barks out a laugh at that, loud and carefree and nothing like anyone who’s ashamed of what they’ve just done. It makes Clint feel free, it makes him feel _wanted_. It makes him feel brave. So instead of all the things Clint _should_ say and do – namely, leave – he shoots them both a smile, crooked and small, but genuine.

“Well, when you put it like that,” he says.

Because sometimes, Barney is right.

If you’re going to do illegal shit, at least do it well enough to be worth the arrest.


End file.
